


the one with the selfies

by ohmcgee



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexting, Tim in glasses, how the fuck is this so long, i don't even know man, mentions of past Tim/Conner, overuse of the words picture and message, so much wanking, yes that's a legit warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Thanks for the spank bank material, replacement, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t meant for me.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the one with the selfies

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from this awesome post on tumblr: http://meimei-bao.tumblr.com/post/108240322401
> 
> "I got drunk and sent a sexy naked pic to my ex but I sent it to you instead by mistake"

“I’m hot,” Tim sulks into his shot glass before Steph reaches over and tips it against his mouth for him, getting it all over his chin. 

“So hot,” Steph says, yanking the bottle out of his hands so clumsily some of it sloshes onto the carpet before she tips it back, forgoing the shot glass altogether. “Totally hot. Why aren’t we having sex right now?”

Tim wipes his chin off with the back of his hand and wrinkles his nose.

“Oh right,” Steph says, shoving the half empty bottle of Tequila back at him. “I’ve got that innie where you’d much rather have an outtie.”

Tim tries to pull a face, but then he’s laughing -- _giggling_ \-- because Steph is freaking hilarious, okay. She’s also right. Steph is beautiful, funny, brave, strong. He fucking loves her. But they tried the whole rubbing their naked bits together once and...no. Just no. Never again. He starts giggling helplessly again just thinking about it. Tequila, man.

“Hey,” Steph says, poking him with her face all lit up. Tim knows that look. That look has gotten him into more trouble than he likes to remember. That look makes Bruce _cry._ Tim _loves_ that look. “I’ve got an idea. You’re probably going to want to take another shot though.”

Oh, Tim thinks, tipping the bottle back. It’s one of _those_ ideas. 

 

***

 

Jason’s in Venezuela this week, taking care of some drug cartels that have been shipping their product into the states, specifically Gotham. He’s really into cutting the problem off at the head these days. 

He’s just walked in his hotel room after blowing up two of their main warehouses and he stinks of cordite and sweat and he’s pretty sure there’s coke in his hair, so he ignores his phone when it buzzes on the bed and heads straight for the shower to wash the night off of him. 

He stands under the blistering hot water and enjoys the hotels spectacular water pressure until it starts to go lukewarm, turning off the faucet right before it goes icy, then slips into a pair of flannel pants he’d packed and slides under the covers, remembering right before he falls asleep that he’d had a message, grabbing his phone from the opposite side of the bed to check it.

The pop-up on the screen reads _Drake_ and even though Jason knows if it were something important, something potentially life threatening, Tim wouldn’t use his personal cell to _text_ him about it, but he’s just so conditioned to bad fucking news that his body reacts to it anyway, bracing for the newest shitstorm he’s about to find himself in. His pulse picks up a little when he swipes across the screen and opens the message.

Then his pulse picks up a lot more.

Jason blinks, his throat suddenly gone parch-dry. It’s...a picture message. A picture of Tim. Standing in front of a floor length mirror, obviously drunk judging by the way his hair is sticking out everywhere and his eyes are red-ringed, his cheeks and chest a comical shade of bright pink. It’s a full body shot and there is a _lot_ of body. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of dark red (Jason wonders if he owns any other color) boxer-briefs and even then he’s got his thumb hooked into one side, pulling them down just far enough that Jason’s theory that Tim is the type of guy who manscapes is proven completely accurate. 

“What the fuck,” Jason mutters, scrolling down, then back up, trying to make sense where there obviously is none. Just. What the _fuck._ He glances down at the tent in his pajama pants and smirks. Well, his dick’s not _wrong._ But before he rucks his pants down to jerk off hard and come way, way too fast for his age, he texts back. 

 

***

 

Tim wakes up with a headache large enough he’s pretty sure it has it’s own zipcode. He instantly goes for the bottle of water and aspirin Steph had left right next to his bed because she is an actual fucking _goddess_ and he will tell her that and worship her for it properly later, when he doesn’t feel like puking every time he inhales. He swallows the pills then curls back into himself on the bed, lying there until the ceiling stops doing that spinning thing and the bed doesn’t feel like a rollercoaster anymore. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand to text Steph a thank you and ask her how she’s doing, oh god she had _class_ today, she really is the best friend ever -- when he notices the little blue led flashing, notifying him he has a new text. He figures it’s just from Steph, checking in to make sure he hasn’t drowned in a puddle of his own vomit, but when he punches his passcode in, the pop-up says it’s from Jason. Huh. It’s been nearly a month since he talked to Jason last, so he’s pretty curious to see what it’s about. Until he taps on the message and it opens up and Tim dies inside.

_Thanks for the spank bank material, replacement, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t meant for me. This was blondie’s idea, wasn’t it?_

Tim stares at the screen in complete, stomach-churning horror. Above Jason’s comment, and right below his last message sent a month ago, asking Tim which tie he should wear to some political event he was working for an undercover thing, is the picture of Tim. 

He is going to _kill_ Stephanie Brown, goddess or not.

 

****

 

“Well, I didn’t tell you to send it to _him!_ ” Steph says, exasperated. “God, you useless lightweight. I didn’t know you were so drunk you needed me to hit send for you.”

“Send I hit just fine, apparently,” Tim groans into his hands. The worst part is he doesn’t even _remember_ doing any of this. “Picking the right number to send it to, not so much.” But then a thought almost more horrifying than Jason getting a stupid drunk selfie of him crosses his mind. What if he _had_ clicked the right contact, the one he’d meant it to go to. “Oh god. That could have went to _Conner._ ”

“That was the plan.”

“Why do I ever listen to you? Do you have any idea how humiliating that would have been? I told him I was over him. I _am_ over him. I was just having a rough night and oh my god, you are officially the worst best friend ever.”

“So what you’re saying,” Steph says as their order of deep fried, grease-soaked food arrives at the table. “Is you’re glad you sent it to Jason.”

“What? What is _wrong_ with you? Neither of these outcomes are ideal! I mean, maybe, because I’d definitely rather Jason mock me than Conner get it and think I was trying to win him back or something, which I”m _not._ ”

“I think you should ask him out.”

Tim pulls at his hair. “Are you even listening to me? I’m over him. Totally, one hundred percent over. It was just--”

“Not him, fucknuts,” Step throws a fry at his face. “Jason.”

Tim stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “Have you? Lost your mind?”

She shrugs.

“He hates me.”

“He thanked you for a dick pic.”

Color rushes into Tim’s cheeks. “It wasn’t a,” he lowers his voice. “ _dick pic._ ”

Steph shrugs again. “Close enough. Besides, he sounded kind of disappointed, I think. That it wasn’t for him.”

“What? How do you even come to these conclusions? Your brain is a scary, terrible place.” 

“Whatever, fabio. Eat your hangover food and think about what you’ve done.”

Tim hates her a little.

 

***

 

Tim spends most of the day staring at the empty reply box on his phone. He should say something. Probably. Should he? Should he apologize for probably visually scarring Jason and explain that he was very, very drunk and that yes, Steph is the actual worst human being on the planet or should he just, you know, do the manly thing and try to pretend like it never happened and that he’ll never have to look Jason in the face ever again? Ultimately, since the latter seems pretty impossible in their line of work, he eventually works up the nerve and around ten hits the send button, rolling face first into the mattress, praying it swallows him whole. 

_Sorry. Yes, it was Steph’s idea. Steph and Tequila’s. Please delete it. Or burn your phone. And your eyeballs. Whatever works. Sorry._

About fifteen minutes later his phone chirps and Tim feels a cold sweat break out across his forehead, braces himself for what he expects will be a humiliating and assholish reply. 

What he _doesn’t_ expect is to receive a picture of Jason, taken exactly the way Tim took his. Except Jason is in black boxer-briefs, not red, and he’s a lot thicker and broader than Tim in all of the places, and Tim pinches and zooms on his abs before he really realizes what he’s doing. He doesn’t notice the note attached to the photo until much later, after one toe-curling, mind-blowing orgasm. 

_Now we’re even_. 

 

***

 

Jason’s in Florida this time, slowly working his way through a cartel that works out of the Keys and provides most of Gotham’s heroin trade. It’s going to take a few weeks before he can figure out who the big shot behind it all is and take the whole operation down with minimal casualties. Because that’s what he’s all about these days, apparently, sparing scumbag smack dealers so they can rot in jail for a few years then get out and continue peddling their poison to the weak. 

It takes forever, working a job this way, not just going in guns blazing and blowing their shit up like it’s the fourth of July. He’s just getting his toes in the door, schmoozing with the lower shitheels on the golf course and then sometimes they meet up at the nightclub one of them owns and they get to talk business. He’s done all he can do for the day though, but he can’t sit still, padding around the penthouse he’s renting while he’s down here, annoyed and frustrated, but mostly just bored out of his skull. 

He thinks about jerking off to pass the time, grabs the little bottle of lube out of his duffel and settles into bed, but then he gets an even better idea, reaches over and picks his phone up off the floor. His fingers move quickly across the on-screen keyboard and he hits send.

_Bored. Send me another one of those._

He lays his phone down and drums his fingers on the comforter, waiting for the reply. Tim could be in school, could be asleep or at a meeting or one of Bruce’s fancy-schmancy PR stunt parties. After a few minutes he’s decided he’s not going to get a reply, so when his phone buzzes Jason grins. 

_What the hell. Seriously?_

_Yes, seriously_ , Jason types out and lays his phone on his belly, waits patiently for the next reply. It takes about ten minutes and he’s really starting to get antsy, his dick half-hard thinking about Tim getting all flustered and confused, but then his phone finally goes off and damn, was it worth the wait. 

Tim’s standing in the same spot as the first one, good lighting probably, but the boxers are grey this time (imagine that) and he’s got his glasses on, the ones he started wearing for the Drake-Wayne persona and just kind of stuck, arm pulled back to cup the back of his neck, and _fuck_ , biting his lip. Jason’s pretty sure he’s not even doing it to be sexy or whatever, that if the flush in his cheeks is anything to go by he’s just embarrassed and a little self conscious. Which really, Jason doesn’t get at all. Just look at him. Tim’s filled out _real_ nice. Sure he’s not as thick-muscled or broad as him or Bruce, but the kid’s fucking ripped. Jason kind of wants to sink his teeth into one of those perfectly sculpted pecs, drag his mouth down those picture perfect abs of his, maybe suck a bruise in the little hollow of his hip. His eyes catch on a bruise and a fresh scar, pink and shiny, that he knows wasn’t in the last picture and wonders what kind of trouble Tim got himself into this time. But if he’s taking dirty pictures for him Jason figures he must be doing alright. 

He gets carried away studying Tim’s smoking hot (seriously, when did that _happen_ ) body on his phone’s tiny screen, scrolling down with one hand, the other palming his dick through his boxers, that he startles a little when his phone buzzes in his hand.

_Your turn._

A grin slowly spreads across Jason’s face. To think, there was a time he didn’t love technology.

 

***

 

Tim flops back on his bed and throws his arm across his face. He can’t believe he just did that. Jason’s probably just messing with him. Hes like, forty-seven percent sure Jason’s totally messing with him. But then he hears Stephs voice in his head saying, “I dunno, he seemed kind of disappointed,” and the fact that Jason obviously hasn’t sent the first pic of him to all their friends and family, or like, the freaking Justice League to humiliate the shit out of him. Unless, of course, he’s just keeping it around for blackmailing purposes, which is also safe to assume with Jason. 

Every second that ticks by after Tim hits send drives him crazy, regret bubbling up in his chest like acid. He feels like he’s going to be sick. Why isn’t Jason saying anything? What _would_ he say? He panics like that, trying to figure out Jason’s motives, until finally he says fuck it, decides two can play this game - whatever game this -- and texts back.

_I’m waiting._

Honestly, he’s doesn’t even expect a reply. Or if he does get one, he expects Jason to laugh at him or tell him to fuck off. He definitely doesn’t expect to get a picture comprised only of Jason’s chest, his flat, washboard stomach, and the very thick, very detailed outline of his very hard cock in his boxers. 

Tim’s hand is in his shorts before he can think about what he’s doing, then he’s pushing them down, wrapping his hand around his cock, doesn’t even have to resort to mental images because Jason’s dick is right _there_ and fuck, there’s a wet spot on the front of his shorts, and Tim thinks briefly of putting his mouth there before he’s shouting and coming his damn brains out. 

“Jesus,” he says to the ceiling when he finally regains control of his major motor functions again and let’s out a clipped off, slightly hysterical giggle. Oh man, what are they _doing?_

He nearly falls off the bed when his phone chirps next to him. 

_Like it?_

Tim’s fingers are too messy and shaky to text back, so he gets up and washes his hand and puts on a clean pair of boxers before getting back in bed and replying.

_Not about to stroke your already obnoxiously huge ego, Jason._

Tim can’t stop _grinning._

His phone chirps again.

_But you did stroke something_

Tim doesn’t even grace that with a response. He’s too busy trying to burrow into his pillows in shame. 

 

***

 

Jason hates Florida. It’s hot like the surface of the sun and the humidity makes him feel like he can never take enough showers and makes his hair curl up around the edges in the most ridiculous way, and there’s fucking bugs _everywhere._ Gotham has rats, roaches, termites here and there, but Florida is like a fucking breeding ground for everything creepy and crawly. Their roaches can _fly_ for fucks sake. And that’s not even mentioning the vermin he has to deal with on a daily basis, the human shaped ones that he wishes he could stomp under his boot the same as all the rest of them. The ones who think they’re the hottest shit alive in their designer suits and Italian shoes, so much bling on their fingers Jason doesn’t know how they can hold their hands up. Tonight they’re at a strip club and Jason has to bite his tongue at the way they talk to the dancers, makes a mental note to forget to go easy on these assholes when he finally takes their shit down.

By the time he gets back to the penthouse he’s looking forward to the little game he and Tim have going on, horny as fuck and still half-hard from getting lap dances all night, but refusing to disrespect the dancers the way the men he’d went there with had. 

He sheds his clothes quickly, light layers because you never fucking get cool enough in this god forsaken hell hole, and picks up his phone.

_Your move. Like the last one I sent you._

He waits.

 

***

 

Tim’s at one of Bruce’s charity functions for Wayne Enterprises when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He’s just standing to the side debating with Cass over Julia Newberry’s tits being real or fake, so he pulls it out and checks the message.

“Tim?” Cass asks when she notices his cheeks start to go splotchy and pink. 

Tim laughs a Timothy Drake-Wayne-esque laugh that he knows won’t fool Cassandra, but might convince any nosey people who might be staring at him. “Too much champagne, I guess,” he says, flashing a bright smile. Cass gives him the skeptical look he was expecting to get from her, but because she’s the most amazing sister ever, she gives him some space and goes to hang out by the chocolate fountain with Steph. 

Jason wants _another_ photo. Oh god, another photo just like the one he sent him last, wants to see him _hard._ Which apparently is not going to be an issue. _Christ, not here._ Tim breathes through his nose -- in, one two three, out, one two three -- thinks about Jane Doe, about stock reports and mergers, about that time Damian got dosed with Ivy’s pollen and tried to -- yep, that’ll do it. 

_I’m at a charity event for W.E._ He texts back because he feels like leaving Jason hanging would be rude. Or something.

His phone buzzes in his hand before he can even slip it back into his pocket.

_So? Use that big brain of yours, replacement. I’m sure you can figure something out._

Tim has to pocket his phone when a reporter comes up to him for a statement, then he’s inundated with W.E. shareholders who want to speak with him, even if he can barely pay attention to what they’re saying. Even as he’s shaking Helen Busey’s hand he feels the light vibration against his thigh and feels the heat rise up the back of his neck instantly.

After making the appropriate amount of bad jokes and small talk, flashing big, bright, playboy smiles and kissing all the cougars who can’t keep their hands off of him on the cheek, Tim excuses himself into an empty hallway to check his phone where no one will be able to see the reaction on his face.

_I’m waiting._

Tim bites his lip. He knows Jason. Too well, actually. He knows he’s not going to give up. If he tries to ignore him, he’ll just keep texting him all night and every time Tim’s phone vibrates against him he’ll _react_ to it and people will stare and talk and it will turn into some _thing._ So he finds a private bathroom in the building and locks the door, double and triple checking it before leaning back against the door and unzipping his pants. A little sigh of air escapes his mouth when he works his hand down the front enough to palm his dick, feeling it instantly twitch and harden in his hand. He bites his lip, sweat beading at his temples, rubbing and palming his dick, rolling his hips into it, until he’s as hard as he’s going to get without coming in his fucking pants. He rucks up his shirt, holding it against his stomach, and angles his phone down, snapping the picture. He adds the note _you can reciprocate when this is over_ before hitting send.

Tim takes a moment to wonder if he can jerk off without everyone knowing what he was just doing, but shoots that idea down almost instantly. He blushes too easy and he’s always pink in the face for like, fifteen straight minutes after he comes and he’d probably reek of sex and everyone would just _know_ and probably someone would snap a picture of him, face all red and slack, hair sticking to his forehead, and that would be the end of his life, basically. So, no. He just has to finish playing the rich playboy for a few more hours, then he can go home and take care of it.

Tim focuses his breathing, goes through his usual list of boner-killing scenarios, finally ends up on another life-ruining Damian moment and is finally able to tuck his shirt back into his pants, straighten his tie, and head back into the adoring masses.

 

***

 

Unfortunately, he still can’t think about anything else the entire night. He schmoozes and poses for pictures and keeps Steph and Cass company and tries to keep Damian out of trouble, but he can’t stop thinking about how desperate Jason was, how persistent he was, poking at Tim until he finally gave in, then going completely radio silent. Tim had asked him to, of course, so that he could make it through the night without making a scene, but still he wondered. If he liked what he saw. If it was good enough. What Jason did when he got the picture. What he did when he got _any_ of Tim’s pictures. 

Thankfully he doesn’t have the opportunity to get lost on that track of thought for too long and find himself in an awkward position, constantly being pulled in this direction or that, but it’s always there in the back of his mind. He doesn’t realize he’s counting the fucking seconds until he can get out of here until Steph catches him looking at his watch for the hundredth time.

“Hot date?”

 

Tim smiles wryly. “Something like that.”

 

***

 

Jason’s about to take matters into his own hands, just flip through his phone and find one of Tim’s older pictures to jerk off to, when the message finally pops up on the screen, Tim’s dress pants that no doubt cost more than Jason’s entire wardrobe combined pushed open, clean white oxford pushed up to his chest, hand splayed out over his stomach, the nice curve of his dick straining against the cotton of his boxer-briefs, a perfect little wet circle on the front. 

Jason sucks in a breath just imagining Tim -- quiet, controlled, good boy Tim -- sneaking away from the debutantes and shareholders to get his dick hard just because Jason _wanted_ him to. He wonders if he jerked off after, went back out to the party all red in the face and disheveled. God, the thought makes Jason have to reach down and squeeze his balls to keep from coming so soon. He wants to think about this a little more, about Tim parading around Bruce’s fancy event, looking all fucked out, pink-necked and over-sensitive to touch, smell of sex clinging to him like perfume. 

“Fuck it,” he grunts and tightens his fist around his cock, fucking into it a rough three times before spilling all over his fingers and stomach, wiping himself off with a discarded t-shirt before rolling over and passing out. 

 

***

 

Tim starts shedding clothes as soon as he walks through the door. First the tie, then the belt, then slowly each button on the shirt, so that when he walks in his room all he has to do is shrug his shirt off and slip out of his pants. Normally he’s more careful with his clothes, but he’s been thinking about this for fucking hours, so much so that he barely has to touch himself at all before he’s completely hard, almost painfully so. 

His fingers shake when he types out the message he’s been thinking about all night.

_Same picture. Lose the boxers._

He tries to be patient as he waits, shoves his boxers off and strokes himself lazily, dragging it out, making all the sounds he wanted to make in that bathroom earlier, picturing what Jason’s doing right now. His thumb passes over the head of his dick when he thinks about Jason stripping and has to stop immediately. _Not yet._

He’s so on edge that when his phone chirps he jumps, knocking it to the ground. When he picks it up and open the message, his face falls.

_Nah._

Tim freezes. Shit. Shit shit shit. He did it. he finally pushed it too far, weirded Jason out. God _dammit._ Great. Now everything’s going to be super fucking weird forever and--

His phone goes off again.

_Think I’ll save that for in person._

Tim’s breath catches and he swallows a moan, dropping his phone, hips jerking and stuttering into his fist, has to shove his other fist into his mouth so all of Gotham doesn’t hear him when he comes.

 

***

 

Jason manages to wrap up the Cartel-In-The-Keys case earlier than expected. Maybe he gets a little sloppy and accidentally mortally wounds a few of them in the process in his rush back to Gotham, but he tells himself it’s just because he really fucking hates Florida.

 

***

 

“You _what_?”

“You heard me.”

“Of course I heard you, but you just told me you’ve been having text sex with Jason freaking Todd. I think that bears repeating a few times. Like, twelve.”

“Not sex,” Tim corrects her. “Just...pictures.”

“And what do you do when you get these pictures, Timothy?”

Tim blushes.

“Mmhm. And what do you think he does when he gets yours?”

More blushing. “I...don’t know. We don’t really talk about that.”

“So you just send each other porny selfies and secretely get off to each other. Kinky. Can I see?”

“No!” Tim says, clutching his phone protectively. 

Steph laughs at him. “Possessive much? You don’t usually get like that till the fourth or fifth date. Hey, how many sext dates have you two had anyway?”

“Oh my god, they aren’t _dates._ ”

Steph shrugs. “Potato, tomato.”

“That’s not how--” Tim sighs, groans into his hands. “Steph, he’s coming _home._ ”

“So?”

Tim gives her a pointed glare.

“Again, I say so? This is a good thing, you little weirdo. Actual in person sex? A lot better than sex via tiny smartphone screen, trust me.”

“We weren’t having _sex_ ,” Tim insists.

“But you want to.”

“Oh _god_ yes,” Tim blurts out, color splotching his cheeks as soon as he realizes what he’s said.

Steph pats him on the back. “We’ll make a real boy out of you yet, Drake. Now give me some money, I need more caffeine.”

 

***

 

Half the time Jason will tell you he fucking hates Gotham City. All of the time you’d be an idiot to believe him. Insane, murderous lunatics aside, this is his home. This is where he’ll always come back to, no matter what. Hell, even death couldn’t keep him away. 

When he finally gets back, he drops his shit at his apartment and heads right back out, back into the shadows and alleys he calls his, the broken streets and polluted skies, the tall, bright buildings and the piles of rubbles of old, long forgotten ones. He stops two muggings, checks on his favorite girls on the corner, bringing them each a hot cocoa and a slice of pie from the diner across the street, before running from rooftop to rooftop until he finds the one he’s looking for. 

 

***

 

Tim checks his messages when he gets back from patrol, after he’s changed back into street clothes. He tries not to let the smile creep onto his face when he sees who it’s from. Damian gives him enough shit as is. But he can’t help it when he opens the message and it’s a picture of Jason, fully clothed, hood and all, sitting on Tim’s kitchen counter.

“Hey Timmy,” Dick says and Tim shuts the screen off instantly. “I’m pretty wired. You wanna continue that game of chess we--”

“Sorry, Dick,” he says, already throwing one leg over the Ducati and pulling on the helmet. “Maybe next time!”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t get a speeding ticket. 

 

***

 

“Hey,” Tim says when he walks in the door. It sounds stupid as soon as it leaves his mouth, but well, he’s not really sure what you’re supposed to say to the guy you have sort of always had a crush on but had no idea was into you too until you drunkenly sent him a half naked picture of yourself that was meant for your ex.

Jason’s sitting on one of the stools now, hood off, drinking one of Tim’s microbrews and Tim wonders how this can be even hotter than all the pornographic pictures of him he’s got on his phone. 

“Hey yourself,” Jason says, grin spreading across his mouth and licks his lips. 

“So,” Tim says, shifting back on the balls of his feet. “How was Florida?”

Jason snorts and gets up, walks up to Tim. “Hell’s armpit,” he says, crowding into Tim’s space. “That really what you want to talk about?”

Tim swallows. “What should I talk about?”

Jason stares at him for a moment, considering him. “What was that first picture for?”

Tim blushes. “I didn’t mean to send it to --”

“Me, I know,” Jason says and Tim thinks he can hear some of that disappointment Steph was talking about. “But what exactly was the plan there?”

“I don’t know,” Tim says, running his fingers through his hair. “I had a bad day. Me and Steph got wasted -- tequila is _not_ my friend -- and Steph thought, suggested I take a picture like that and send it to C -- to my ex. To, I don’t know, show him what he was missing? It was stupid. Seriously, tequila--”

“So you still hung up on Super Clone?”

Tim bites his lip. Of course Jason would know. Jason knows _everything._ “No. I’m not.”

Jason raises his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, playing with the zipper on Jason’s jacket. “I mean. I kinda got this new thing going with this really hot guy.”

“Hotter than the other one?”

“Way hotter,” Tim grins. 

“And you’re not,” Jason swallows, vulnerability softening his face. “Worried that it won’t live up to the hype?”

“Not at all,” Tim says, letting his hands fall to Jason’s belt. “You can keep asking questions if you want,” he says, tugging on Jason’s belt until it slips all the way out. “But it’ll be kind of hard for me to answer them when I’m blowing you.”

“It’s cool,” Jason says distractedly as Tim drops to his knees. “I got all the answers I needed.”

 

***

 

“You’re welcome,” Steph says, folding her arms across her chest smugly.

Tim lifts an eyebrow at her. “For?”

The evil grin that spreads out slowly across her face is equal parts beautiful and terrifying. “For sending that picture to Jason and not Conner that night.”

Tim opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. Steph puts her finger under his chin and closes it for him.

“You’re _welcome._ ”


End file.
